


I'll Be Home For Christmas

by VenusMonstrosa



Series: recalibrates' Stucky Advent Calendar 2018 [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Christmas, M/M, Wakanda (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-12 00:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16862539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenusMonstrosa/pseuds/VenusMonstrosa
Summary: Day 4: Does anyone have any orange slices?





	I'll Be Home For Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Better late than never?
> 
> Unbeta'd and also written at 3AM l m a o, so every single mistake is my own. Last night, I slept a total of 3 hours. Tonight will be the same thing. Help.

It’s early December, or so they tell Bucky when he asks. The seasons don’t vary much so the months blur together, and he doesn’t have anything else to go off of. He doesn’t own a calendar, let alone any electronics that would keep track of the date otherwise. He likes it better this way. He spent decades learning and using the newest tech as they rolled out, but he made do without them, once upon a time.

Made do without a lot, really. He settled into the farm with ease.

They tell him it’s December, so he realizes he missed Thanksgiving. One of his nurses asks what that is, but he doesn’t feel great about explaining the settler colonial history, but that’s not what it meant to him, anyway. Thanksgiving was scrounging together every last cent they could find to have a dinner that wasn’t entirely boiled, holding hands to say grace and not letting go. It was remembering who they lost and a reminder that they still have each other.

He thinks of Steve, pushes past all those complicated feelings that come with thinking of him, and wonders what he did for Thanksgiving without him.

Wonders if he’ll ever be ready to face him again.

“We have the means for you to speak to him, if you want,” Princess Shuri had offered when he first woke up.

 _I want,_ Bucky thought.

“Not yet,” he said.

King T’Challa would have told Steve he was awake, Bucky was certain. And Steve would have pushed, would have urged to see him. But by some small miracle, the days went by and there was no sign of Steve. Bucky wasn’t ready, and he was respecting that.

The least Bucky could do in return, was get himself ready.

Weeks passed. The nightmares stopped. His farm thrived. Time went on.

He made up his mind to call Steve on his birthday, staying up half the night coming up with a shaky apology to stumble through in the morning, but a mission had Steve off the grid.

So Bucky lost his nerve.

And now it’s almost Christmas.

 

\--

 

He mulls it over in his head for a while before he seeks audience with the King.

“I know I wanna call him,” Bucky says. “I don’t know if he’ll answer.”

“And you _won’t_ know, unless you try,” T’Challa says easily. “But between you and me, I would prefer you try sooner rather than later. There are only so many updates I can give him about your new goats.”

 

\--

 

They give Bucky a solar-powered tablet with limited internet access, at his request. It takes him a day to get the nerve to turn it on, and another to type out an email. He deletes a dozen drafts, each one longer than the last, before he settles on a simple, impersonal greeting. A request to call him when convenient. A suggestion to stay safe, wherever he is, whatever he’s doing.

He turns the tablet off after hitting send, so he won’t have to fret about the reply.

When he turns it back on at the end of the week, there are four missed videocalls and twice as many emails in his inbox.

 

_Hey, Bucky. I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear from you. Call you in 5, if that’s OK. -SGR_

 

_Hey. Sorry if you were busy. I’ll try again tomorrow, same time. -SGR_

 

_Buck, I’m going underground for a few days. Going to try to catch you before then. -SGR_

 

_Hope everything’s alright. I have some downtime right now, so let me know when you’re free. -SGR_

 

_If you changed your mind, I want you to know that it’s OK and I’m not mad. (And I’m sorry for all the messages, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.) -SGR_

 

_This is the last email, I promise. I’ll wait as long as you need me to. S._

 

Bucky is halfway through a stilted attempt at an answer before he gives up and sends a videocall request. The camera connects and he’s suddenly made aware of his limp hair and unkempt beard, the sweat dotting his forehead and staining his torn, dusty shirt. Before he can cancel the call, it rings through and the screen fills up with Steve’s face.

Steve’s long hair and heavily bearded, handsome, smiling face.

“You look dumb,” Bucky blurts out.

Steve only smiles wider. _“Hi, Buck.”_ From what Bucky can see, he’s in a white t-shirt, sitting down somewhere comfortable, perhaps a couch or a bed. He looks clean and relaxed. Happy, even.

Bucky chances a small smile in return, and realizes he doesn’t know what to say next. Rather, he does, but isn’t sure where to begin.

 _“Tell me about your goats?”_ Steve asks without preamble, and Bucky supposes that’s as good a place as any to start.

Free from the confines of immediate threat and urgency, talking to Steve about nothing much at all feels like pulling on an old coat. Bucky knows every patch and mismatched button, can recall the story of every rip and tear if he thinks hard enough. There are questions and stories, and comfortable silences where they make cow eyes at each other. Bucky settles into the conversation, bundling himself up in it until it warms him through.

It’s a few hours later and well after nightfall when Bucky starts to yawn more than talk, so Steve insists he get some sleep. _“I can call again tomorrow. Or another time. Whenever you want,”_ he adds, and Bucky could elbow him for the stupid, hopeful look on his face.

“Tomorrow,” Bucky agrees.

 

\--

 

They talk every day, from then on. The times vary, depending on where Steve is in the world, and sometimes he can only hop onto a videocall for a few minutes to say hello or goodnight. He never volunteers any information about his missions, and Bucky never asks.

 _“It looks so hot and sunny there. I’m jealous,”_ Steve sighs, presumably somewhere cold.

Bucky shakes his head. “I think I miss the snow. Not the cold, but…” he casts about for the right words. “It’s December.”

Steve gives him a lopsided smile. _“I know. Christmastime just ain’t the same without it.”_

Or modest presents wrapped in newspaper. Or Steve’s persistent, rattling cough. Or sharing an orange before bed on Christmas eve.

“Yeah,” Bucky says softly. “Ain’t the same without you, mostly.”

Steve looks at Bucky for a long moment, his smile rearranging into something more doleful. _“I miss you, too.”_

 

\--

 

 _“So what would you wanna do for Christmas? Together, I mean.”_ The question comes out of nowhere one afternoon, less than a week away from the aforementioned holiday.

Bucky frowns. “I don’t know, Steve.” He doesn’t want to play this game of what-ifs and opportunities lost.

_“Come on, Buck. I’m cold and bored and stuck here for another couple hours before pick-up. Humour me. What would we do together?”_

“Steve,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes wearily.

_“Decorate a tree? Sing carols? Eat an entire roast turkey?”_

“I told you, I don’t know.”

 _“There’s gotta be_ something _you’d wanna do for Christmas.”_

“Well, if we were home, we’d decide on that together, wouldn’t we?” Bucky snaps.

He would feel badly about taking that tone if Steve didn’t grin in response.

 _“Alright, you win,”_ he concedes. _“I’ll call you tomorrow?”_

 

\--

 

Steve calls at the ass crack of dawn.

Without opening his eyes, he jabs at the tablet screen with a finger.

“What?” he grunts, shoving his face back into his pillow.

_“So, Sam had a request.”_

Bucky raises his head and scowls. “Huh?”

_“He wants us to recreate the nativity scene with a baby goat.”_

“A kid,” Bucky corrects, before finally blinking awake. “Wait, what for?”

 _“For our Christmas cards,”_ Steve states, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

“Our Christmas _what--_ ”

 _“You think this one will hold still long enough for a photo?”_ Steve asks, hefting a goat up to the camera. It bleats in protest, wriggling in Steve’s grasp. 

“Where the hell did you find a goat?” Bucky grumbles, wiping sleep out of his eyes.

_“Your farm.”_

Bucky sits up in bed.

_“I know, I should’ve asked first.”_

He doesn’t bring the tablet, nor does he bother with a shirt or boots on his way to the front door.

_“I guess I thought it’d be a nice surprise.”_

Just outside, Steve is still murmuring to his phone, though he looks away from the camera to keep an eye on the tiny goat in his lap that seems to be warming up to him. “What’s this one’s name, anyway?”

“Steve.”

He looks up at Bucky, betrayed. “Because it’s the littlest one?”

Bucky chuckles in a way he hopes appears casual, despite his racing heart. “I got nostalgic.”

Steve, the human, begrudgingly accepts that answer.

“Hey. Speaking of nostalgia,” he says, getting to his feet. Dislodged, the goat huffs and stalks away. Steve reaches into his filled-to-bursting backpack and tosses something at Bucky, which he catches without a second thought.

An orange.

Bucky can’t help the smile that splits his face. “This is a bedtime snack,” he chides. “Can’t just ignore Christmas tradition like that.”

Steve shrugs without an ounce of remorse. “Then let’s go to bed now. Make a couple new traditions.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm extremely unhappy with this ficlet, but it'll have to do. This is all part of the learning process, I guess! Here's hoping tomorrow's ficlet will go better :D
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/VenusMonstrosa) and [tumblr](http://recalibrates.tumblr.com/).


End file.
